


Lonesome

by badgertastic



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-24
Updated: 2016-03-24
Packaged: 2018-05-28 21:11:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,192
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6345283
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/badgertastic/pseuds/badgertastic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Corypheus is dead, the Breach sealed.  The Iron Bull should really be the happiest qunari in Skyhold, but Dorian's heart belongs to the Inquisitor.  That's when a certain emotion-reading bug-eyed kid points out a soul very nearly as lonesome as he is.  And, him being the Iron Bull and all, he takes it on himself to do something about it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lonesome

**Author's Note:**

> A present for a dear friend and fellow Professional Bull Rider, the darling Beans. She's been feeling down in the dumps lately, so I wrote this for her. All fluff and feathers and Bull seducing the ever-living shit right out of her chubby biracial non-Inquisitor OC, with a dash of her favorite angsty plotbunny; Dorian and Bull almost-but-not-quite-entirely-hooking-up because one or the other falls for the Inquisitor. I hope you feel better, lovely Beansie!

Victory.  The word tasted and sounded sweet.  That Magister asshole was a pile of dust, the Breach sealed for good.  To say that Skyhold turned out a celebration fit for such an occasion was probably shaping up to be the understatement of the Age.  The party went on for hours, even after the banquet in the great hall had drawn to a reluctant close.  Those still upright (and there were a surprising amount) relocated to the Herald’s Rest to continue their revelry.  But Cabot’s stores wouldn’t last forever, and despite their best intentions, neither would the stamina of the partygoers.  That’s how the Iron Bull found himself nursing his last drink in the small hours before dawn, the crowds thinning as the victorious Inquisition took their celebrations to far more private locations.  It was a particular and endearing quirk of Southerners to commemorate a victory against insurmountable odds with an appropriate excess of sex.  Though, if he was honest, even adherents of the Qun weren’t immune to it.  There were times when bloody skirmishes won in Seheron sent lines for the tamassrans reaching down the block and around a corner.

Yes, everyone was partnering up and pairing off (or sometimes tripling - some Orlesians were feeling suitably kinky), hanging drunkenly in each others’ arms as they fondled and kissed and tried to walk at the same time.  So far in the exodus six distracted couples had either fallen down the stairs or crashed into every table between them and the door.  And strangely enough, it seemed like Bull was going to be the only one without a partner for the dance.  Even some of the Chargers had since sidled off with a gal or guy of their choice.  The most surprising turn of the evening had been the disappearance of the Inquisitor.  He and his Tevinter squeeze vanished quite early - a surprise, given how much the pair were preening social butterflies who rarely turned down an occasion to mingle.  Bull snorted, tipping the dregs of his last tankard into his mouth.  At least Dorian was happy.  Wasn’t much else to be said in that regard.

“The Iron Bull,” came suddenly from his right.  Despite the fact that Cole had decided to become more human than spirit the kid still possessed an unnatural talent for popping right the fuck in out of nowhere.  Bull twitched, too drunk to properly start.  “Stone walls hold a sea.  A sea of loving, touching, tenderness and joy.  It reaches as far as I can feel, the Iron Bull.  But how … how can someone be in the middle of such a sea and still thirst for it?  All the others have gone to bed with someone, sheets and limbs tangled.  But not me…”  The strange kid’s head lifted, eyes huge and round beneath both the brim of his absurd hat and fringes of white-blonde hair.

The rogue’s cryptic dialogue took a half a second longer than usual to process given Bull’s state of inebriation, prompting him to belch into his fist for a reason to stop and think.  “What, you’re saying someone out in Skyhold wants a tumble but ain’t gettin’ none?”  Another stifled belch, the qunari turning his head to look square at the kid just in case he decided to squirrel off and vanish without clarification.  “...it isn’t me, is it?”  Bull could have sworn Cole’s ability to scoop up the thoughts of others was supposed to have diminished when he made his choice.  Though, he had to admit, it was incredibly out of sorts for him to not have bent _somebody_ over _something_ by now, given the circumstances.  The way Cole’s blue eyes landed on him made Bull squirm internally.  In about three seconds the kid was gonna say something weirdly personal, he just knew it.

“I wondered if he would set the bed on fire if I teased him enough.  But he deserves to be happy.”  The young man cocked his head, as if listening to something in the distance.  “He _is_ happy, the Iron Bull.  Soft kiss on the palm, holding the light of salvation.  Green coruscates in the dark.  A word of love and endearment, one he thought he would never say to another.  I’ve been called a lot of things, but never love.  Stay with me, amat -”  The unguarded flash of pain on the mercenary’s face made Cole stop short, shuffling his feet awkwardly.  He was still learning.

“It must be somethin’ for you to be able to read the Inquisitor from here.”  

A blink, a birdlike tilt of his head.  “Love is strong.  It’s loud, like shouting brass horns, a sunrise on a day everyone thought would never come.”

“Except for … whoever it is that prompted this whole fucked-up half-conversation.”  Bull lifted his mug for a drink, frowned when he remembered it was empty.  “Cole, I love you to death, kid, but you’ve got a particular way of bringin’ the room down.”

“Go to her, then.”  The exasperated look on Bull’s face prompted Cole to lift his arm, pointing without looking, his expression mimicking Bull’s exasperation.  In response the qunari tilted in his chair to see.  Tucked in a quiet, unobtrusive corner on a low stool sat a figure, hunched over a lap desk similar to the one Josephine used.  Whoever they were, the short stub of a candle they were working by did little to illuminate them or their surroundings.  Shit like that was bad for the eyes.  Softly, Cole spoke again.  “His horns are hard to get right.  Broad, like his shoulders.”  Bull’s still-functioning eyebrow went up a notch, curiosity getting the better of him.  Before he knew what he was really doing, he eased himself out of his chair.  Cole retreated to his corner, his job done.  “The room will go up again now?”

It wasn’t until Bull stood that he realized he, Cole, and the lone figure were the only occupants left in the common room.  Cabot and the rest of the unattached staff had vanished into the back to finish closing up.  As quietly as he was able (and it was fairly quiet, given his size) he padded along, circling wide to approach from off to the side.  The light here was only markedly better, but he was able to focus in on a few details.  She was likely one of the serving girls, or maybe the kitchen staff.  Compared to him she was short and plump, with a puff of hair that instantly reminded Bull of dandelion fuzz.  Other than that, she was completely unknown to him, and for a quiet few heartbeats Bull was wondering how he had come to slip so far off his game.

He settled quietly into the nearest chair even though it faced the wrong way, folding his arms across the back.  Peering as best he could given the dim light at whatever she was working on, he was surprised to find that it was a drawing, a stub of charcoal held in her right hand.  More surprising still was that it was a page full of drawings of him - mostly his horns in an effort to capture the proper angle of their sweep.  Bull rubbed his chin thoughtfully, his rumbling tone amused.  “Aww, you didn’t botch ‘em nearly as bad as you think you did.”

Her reaction was satisfactorily adorable, startled so thoroughly she nearly went sideways off her seat with a strangled “oh!”.  The candle flame wavered, wax oozing down one side.  Eyes perfectly round and filled to the brim with panic and embarrassment, she tried to hunch over the desk to hide her work.  “Oh Maker!  I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to - “  The flame danced again from the shaking death grip she held the desk in, looking for all the world like she wanted to hide it or throw it.

Bull was all genial smiles, hands up in a self-deprecating gesture.  “No, it’s alright.  I didn’t mean to scare you.  It’s flattering.  You’re really quite good.”  Her mouth open and closed several times, like a fish out of water.  That was when she wrenched her face away, looking squarely at the paper, trying to shrink into invisibility.  An impish grin turned a corner of his mouth up.  She was cute, an innocent sort of unfussy cute.  The way-out-in-the-ass-end-of-nowhere down country farmgirl type.  Her skin was a tawny amber, only slightly diminished by the simple deep brown woolen skirt and white blouse she wore.  All in all she reminded him strongly of a round little wren - fluffy, soft, and squeezable.  She must have felt him looking because she hazarded a look up, treating him to a pair of hazel eyes and a smattering of freckles - _freckles!_ \- across the bridge of her nose.  Bull’s heart melted in his chest and went straight to his groin.  Sighing, he once again tucked his arms across the back of the chair, all tender charm.  “It’s a crime against decency that you’re sitting here alone.”

She blinked, her confusion causing her to momentarily forget her panic.  “Messere Iron Bull?”

“‘Bull’ will suffice.”  Unable to stop himself, he casually held out his hand, palm up.  Her immediate reaction was to set her right in his, though he saw well and good her terrified realization, trying to first hide the charcoal stick and the smears it left on her fingers and then wrestling with whether or not to remove her hand altogether.  “‘Messere’, eh?”  He lifted her to hand to his face; a chaste brush of his lips against her skin.  Her pulse hammered lightning quick against the fingers that held her with a light touch.  “Marcher?”  She nodded, curls springing.

“Yes, Me - Bull.  Though my father and I made the journey here from Emprise du Lion after the Inquisition liberated us from the Red Templars.”  Her eyelashes fluttered, lids tightening against the threat of tears.  Someone had died to warrant the trip.  Either way, she didn’t notice that he had turned her hand over, examining her dirty fingers with an amused half-grin.  She was pure spun sugar, so far.  “It was my mother’s home.  We were returning her ashes to the land of her birth when the river froze.”

Bull kept her distracted from nervousness with questions.  “I am sorry to hear of your mother, dearest.  But Emprise du Lion came under Inquisition control nearly a year ago.  You’ve been here all this time?”  This time her forehead creased as she spoke, noticing the placement of her hand within his.

“No, Mes - Bull.  We followed a supply train back to Skyhold, so the trip was slow in the taking.  Four months we’ve been here, perhaps?”

“Ah, that explains it.”  Her head tilted to the side, playing to the impression of a little brown bird.  “I was away with the Inquisitor during that time.”  An internal sigh of relief - he hadn’t gone completely oblivious and soft in the head!  To celebrate he raised her hand again, pressing his lips against her wrist, her pulse beating quicker against his mouth.  Raising his head a fraction, he gave her a small, secretive smile.  “That’s why I haven’t noticed you sooner.”  Another press of his lips, this one against her palm, the fingers he uncurled trembling against his stubble.  “What’s your name?”

“Emmalise.”  She breathed softly, cleavage swelling against her bodice.  Bull would have purred had he possessed the ability.

“What has you awake at this hour, Emmalise?”  Now she did try to pull her hand away and he let her, his fingers yielding and soft as she slipped from them.  Grimacing with shame, her eyes rolled towards the desk, bringing the barest amount of attention needed to it.  “Caught up in your work?”

“Ah…”  Bull could see plainly how she sought an excuse that wouldn’t make her cringe.  A flash of panic, and then resignation as her shoulders slumped.  “Yes.”

Flattered by the implication, Bull tilted his head, eye never leaving her face.  “Have you drawn me before?”  The grin that spread after he asked the question brought the most charming stain of red to her cheeks.

Emmalise bit her lower lip, prompting Bull to make a mental note to do so later as well.  They looked perfect for nibbling on.  A mental bet followed the note: he wagered she would squirm in a most satisfactory way when he did so.  Managing to keep eye contact despite the trembling and blushing, she said, “I only first saw you last night during the Inquisition’s victorious return march.  You are rather … er.  Inspiring.  Bull.”  She swallowed hard, trying to maintain an aura of easy flirtation, but Bull found he couldn’t take his eye from the hollow of her throat where her heartbeat fluttered double-time.

Slowly and with infinite care, he reached with an easy gesture, twirling a long curl around his finger to tuck it away from her eyes.  Her hair was springy, hundreds of long softly crinkled coils and twists barely restrained by a rolled kerchief worn on the crown of her head and tied at the nape of her neck.  It _would_ puff out like a dandelion in seed if he gave a little tug on the bow and let it loose.  A fabulous fluffy cocoa-colored dandelion, streaked with hazelnut from the sun.  “And you’re rather not as shy as you think you are, Em.”  He extended his hand when her lips parted in a silent gasp.  Without another sound she slid her fingers into his, charcoal stub forgotten.  Rising to her feet at his gentle tug, he drew her close, the chair back between them.  Bull paused only to set her desk aside on a table, and then to appreciate her figure.  But she was still easily spooked yet, so he went slowly, crushing down thoughts of the sounds he could coax out of her.  Feather touches, the barest brush of his fingertips against her broad cheekbones.  Now that they weren’t huge with fear, her eyes were almond, tilted slightly, like a cat’s.  If her mother was from Emprise du Lion, then her father was from Rivain.  Vivienne had a similar cast to her features.  It took a concerted effort to put his hands on the chair and not on those broad round hips.  “Would you like me to prove it?”  Curls bounced as she nodded.  Catching her wrists up, he brought her hands to her waist before him, and pressed another kiss into each palm.  A serving girl’s hands, strong and in-between rough and soft, where vanity warred with the necessity of thick skin.  Callused fingers trembled against his jaw again when he sighed against her skin.  Lifting his head, he tugged her a step closer.  She took the initiative, her arms threading around him.  Now his hands did go to her waist, and he groaned internally.  

Her ass hadn’t crossed his mind until that very moment.  Suddenly the hands that itched for her hips were unsatisfied, wanting a palmful of backside each.  And with the way he was hunched, it took another dose of willpower to not start tugging at the laces of her bodice with his teeth.  No love bruises for this one, oh no.  Instead he straightened, and it brought him very nearly level with her face.  He was as tall sitting up as she was standing.  She would barely make chest-height when he was fully upright.  Bull brought his face close to hers, close enough to count her freckles.  More spangled her forehead, and he suspected, her shoulders too.  It began with a simple, honest kiss - more a light press of his lips against hers.  But she was drawing him for a reason, and that sweet, short kiss burst the dam.  Coming as close as the chair allowed, she began to kiss him insistently, her arms awkward and hesitant, riding high on his neck.  Stopping her barrage of affection for a moment, he used both hands to gently lower her touch to his shoulders.  “It’s okay.”

The insatiable curiosity of the artist stamped out building passion as she rubbed questing fingertips across the black shapes marking his skin.  Light presses, feathery tickling stroking as she compared and contrasted how blackened skin yielded less than the pale grey.  “What is it?”

Bull rumbled, taking liberties with his own exploration as she did with him.  Lowering his chin a fraction, he inhaled deeply.  Heavy, heady human sweat - the line about rotten pork had been to get a rise out of Dorian - rich like good tilled earth.  How he loved farmer’s daughters.  “It’s called vitaar, precious girl.”  The words were husky as Bull filled his head with her smell, and the tone made her gasp.

“It’s ...hard.”  Her attention returned somewhat to his face, where he managed to keep a roguish leer under wraps, letting slip no sign of his amusement at her unintentional double entendre.  But she was studying him again with an artist’s eye, using her fingertips to help memorize the shapes and contours.  His ears twitched - nearly flapped - uncontrollably when she swept her index fingers up along the outer curve of each.  It was like a crackle of electricity down his spine.  The motion made her smile, and Bull’s breath caught in his throat.  Through some strange alchemy the expression changed the entire landscape of her face, and she went from being plainly pretty to heartbreakingly exquisite.

His self-control slipped away for the span of a few heartbeats, prompting him to drop his head and plant his nose square in the lavish softness of her cleavage, inhaling deep.  Her body rose against him, his answering moan muffled.  Bull wrestled, breathed in, and pinned his urges down.  That was when her slim little hands came up, cupping the back of his head, pressing his face against her skin.  As exhausted and inebriated as he was, that bold little gesture nearly snapped his willpower clean in two.  After a moment’s more indulgence he lifted his face away before he became completely drunk on her smell.

The Iron Bull.  Formerly Hissrad of the Ben-Hassrath, now just Captain of the Bull’s Chargers.  Master of Ass-kicking and Dragon-Killing, and certainly the Best Around at Getting Folks to Take Off Their Pants.  Nearly undone by a tiny woman that strongly resembled a toasted guimauve.

That put into his head the question of her taste, and he acted on it, capturing her heart-shaped face in his palms, thumbs stroking those glorious cheekbones.  Emmalise was transfixed by the movement, her eyes now thin rings of golden-green swallowed up by inky blackness.  The instant his lips found hers her arms went around his neck hard as her mouth yielded.  She leaned into him, like she was contemplating climbing over the back of the chair and into his lap.  At this angle her breasts crushed against his throat, the laces and stitchwork on her bodice prickling his skin.  He left her breathless as well as motionless, her eyes remaining closed though her lips still parted, caught up in savoring and remembering.  It was a suitable stroke to his ego to see such a reaction.  Especially when she brought her forehead against his to compose herself, earning her a kiss on her broad, flattish, freckled nose and he another one of her bewitching smiles.  The question he asked quietly against her lips was a simple “Will you?”, but it seemed to strike her dumb.  Emmalise closed in on herself, a shy, shrinking violet again, all blushes and hesitation.  This sort of thing happened every once in awhile.  Kisses and cuddles with the big intimidating horned guy were pants-ruining taboo torrid distractions, but the idea of anything further than that sent some folk into a faint.  “There’s nothing to be afraid of, Em.  But if you want to stop, I’ll…”

She cut him off with a shake of her head, curls and bosom quivering at the movement.  But the hands that had so freely wandered over him were kept folded across her midsection, though she tried - and failed - to make the gesture casual.   _Oh for shit’s sake - she really can’t think she’s unattractive, can she?!_  As if she had read his mind, she managed a timid squeak, feeling the need to fill the silence between them.  “The other girls talked.  And … I assumed you would …”  Her eyes were firmly on the toes of her slippers now.  Bull’s internal groan was sympathetic.  

“I would what?  Save the best for last?”  He tried a tender joke, tipping her head up with a gentle finger beneath her chin.  The eyes that met his flashed in anger.

“Don’t tease me, please.”  An exterior shell seemed to come up over her at her words, all thorns and barbs to keep the hurts away.

“I’m not teasing, Em.  I mean it.  You’re absolutely beautiful, woman.”  He reverted to type just a fraction, the thinnest sliver of his sexual aggression slipping out as he wrapped his arms around her, pulling her as close to him as she was able to come all while untying the kerchief in her hair with one swift tug.  It fluffed and swelled just like he hoped it would, tumbling in loose clusters over her shoulders and down her back.  Then his mouth was on her throat and jaw, errant curls catching on the rough surface of his horns so that when he lifted his head, he felt like he was coming up through a cloud.  Looking down at him with an expression of absolute wonder, she let the thorns retract.  “If you’ll allow it, I’ll show you how much I mean it.”  When she made no immediate sound or movement of dissent he kissed her again.  As she was higher in elevation currently, the angle caused her glorious hair to billow around their faces.  Even as he kissed her silly she fretted over its unconventional appearance, trying to smooth it back and away with both hands without breaking contact with him.  He stopped her with a gentle touch on her wrists, before carefully slipping his fingers into the fuzzy mass.  “I like it,” he rumbled against her lips.  “Soft and beautiful.”  Distracting her with a few quick kisses, he extricated his hands from her hair with minimal tugging, folding her in his arms once more.  This chair back was starting to get irritating, but he figured Cabot wouldn’t appreciate him ripping it off to properly squeeze her.

A touch on his cheeks caused a brief stop in the affections he lavished on the bare expanse of seriously formidable cleavage.  He looked up when she whispered one word softly.  “Why?”

For a half a second Bull deliberated how best to phrase his response.  The tension was approaching ridiculous.  A completely unbidden thought of Varric and his novels surfaced and very nearly came close to shattering his cool.  The dialogue was practically writing itself, all pregnant pauses and simmering passions - totally and utterly tawdry romance novel drek.  That led him to a thought of Cassandra, which ricocheted into the memory her knocking him flat on his ass with a two by four.  At last something in his head lit up; the end result of getting the shit beaten out of him with a stick.  He was the Iron- _Fucking_ -Bull!  “Why, creampuff?  Because you deserve to feel as lovely as you are.”  She gaped openly at the straightforward tone of his response and then squeaked at the blatant open-mouthed kiss he planted in the swell of her breasts.  When he raised his head again, he didn’t bother to mask the heat.  “Because you look like you’re going to be delicious and I want you naked and squirming under me.”  She shook like a leaf, but didn’t wilt or shrink away.  “Does that answer your question?”  Self-confidence budded and swelled as she cupped the back of his head with both hands, bringing his face up to hers.  “So I’ll ask once more.  Will you, Emmalise?”

Before she kissed him boldly, she nodded, speaking plain and proud against his lips.  “Yes.”  The kiss only lasted a fraction of a second, however, as Bull solved two of his problems in the next instant.  In one swift motion he stood, while at the same time helping himself to her rear.  Groping needs met, annoying obstruction dealt with, and she made the best squeak of delight in the process.  Short enough that she could sit on the crook of his arm like a child, Bull held her tight.  She laughed with delight, throwing her arms around his neck.  Unable to stop himself, he nuzzled his face into her crown of curls.  “Though, Bull, if I may?”  She waited for his lazy “hn?” before continuing.  “Creampuff is a terrible pet name.”

“Eh.  The talent comes and goes.”  He shrugged.   _You could have called yourself The Iron Dragon._  “My gifts are elsewhere.”  Without further hesitation he mounted the stairs, taking them two at a time.  “As you shall soon see, my girl.”  Her squeak was satisfying.  When he rounded the second set he spoke towards the furthest back corner, earning him a confused look from Em.  “Thanks for the help, kid.”  Dorian was happy.  Corypheus was dead, and Dorian was happy.  It would suffice.

 

 


End file.
